


The 14th Scenario

by ardour



Series: Concealer [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Case Fic, Creepy Moriarty, Depression, Disguise, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Jealousy, John Watson is a Straight, Makeup, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Post-His Last Vow, Post-Reichenbach, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-27
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardour/pseuds/ardour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock joins forces with Molly and Mrs Hudson to foil Moriarty's final crime. Perhaps he can also salvage his relationship with a certain John Watson. </p><p>(This fic continues from 'Mascara.')</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Totenkopf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens as Mycroft's team make a discovery about Moriarty's video. Meanwhile, Sherlock is relieved to have an exciting new case. No one can replace John, of course -- but the man's been driving him mad, and it's time he found himself a new companion.

Moriarty hangs over London. People switch off their screens and smartphones, heartily sick of the smiling face that won’t look away.

Anyone with any sense is deeply paranoid. Potential suspects are everywhere -- and potential victims. That man in the bulky jacket, standing by himself beside the zebra crossing. That woman reading in her car. Those kids, hanging around on the steps of the art gallery.

Mycroft orders phones for himself and Anthea, simple Nokias with monochrome screens. When he switches them on, he half expects to see two Moriartys looking at him in a lower resolution. He instructs Anthea to keep an eye on the video feed. Her mouth moves in a small gesture of distaste. But she understands why he’s asking. She texts one-handed, the Nokia in her right hand and the infected BlackBerry in her left.

Back at 221B, Sherlock turns on all his laptops. He knows there won’t be civilians wrapped in semtex this time; Moriarty wouldn’t tell the same joke twice. He doesn’t want to miss a clue, and so he positions the laptops so that Moriarty’s never out of his sight, even when he’s on the toilet.

Right now it would be nice to have company, he thinks, but a sense of purpose will do. Besides, John might have taken his mind off the task at hand.

He doesn’t have enough chargers for all the laptops, and the only solution is to keep checking their battery levels and switching the chargers around so that none of the screens lose power.

Eventually, Sherlock’s patience is rewarded when the video feed changes. Moriarty’s mouth, which has been twitching convulsively for 24 hours, suddenly opens wide. For a moment there is only a gaping black hole that reminds Sherlock of the mouth on a vinyl sex doll.

Then the mouth resolves into a grin, Moriarty bearing his teeth in a sign of amusement, or aggression. Sherlock stares, glued to the screen that’s balanced on the bathroom counter, his trousers round his ankles.

Moriarty's teeth begin to jump quickly up and down. _Did you miss me?_ Sherlock watches the animated jaws champ again and again. He wonders if it’s meant to look as though Moriarty is talking, or laughing with fierce monkey-like laughter. The man looks ready to devour, to tear flesh with his teeth.

 _Did you miss me?_ _Did you miss me?_

Hearing noises on the stairs, Sherlock pulls up his trousers and goes back out into the sitting room. Mrs Hudson appears in the open doorway, no doubt disturbed by the sixteen laptops playing Moriarty’s voice in the flat above her.

‘What on earth are you doing, Sherlock? This is so creepy!’

Sherlock tears himself away from the screens and bends down to give her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Don’t worry, Mrs Hudson. I’ll get to the bottom of this.’

‘You and whose army?’

Right on cue, the landline rings. Sherlock runs ahead of Mrs Hudson, taking the stairs two at a time. _Is it John?_

It’s Mycroft.

‘Oh, it’s _you._ ’

‘Good morning, little brother. Anthea tells me that we have a new development.’

‘The video changed, yes. It’s back on a loop again now.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s not a loop, Sherlock. It’s a long video. We’ve made some progress, while you’ve been holed up in your flat.’

Sherlock hums with frustration and waits for Mycroft to continue.

‘The video will come to an end, approximately … twelve hours from now.’

‘What happens then?’

‘I don’t know. There's nothing else to go on, not yet anyway. The video's all we have. Sherlock?'

'Yes, what?'

'If Moriarty is behind this, somehow...'

'We weren't as clever as we thought.'

Mycroft sighs gently. '13 possible scenarios, and it still wasn't enough.'

'Well, he wasn't just thinking a couple moves ahead. He was playing a much longer game.'

Mycroft makes a noise that would have been a grunt, if Mycroft was the kind of man who grunted.

'Sherlock, you've been sitting at home thinking, have you?’

‘What else?’

‘Think harder,’ says Mycroft. He hangs up.

Sherlock walks back upstairs, thinking harder. While he was on the phone, Mrs Hudson had gone up and wandered around the flat. Now he hears her gasp and groan. She must've found the laptop in the bathroom.

He calls through to her, ‘It’s perfectly safe, Mrs. Hudson.’

‘It’s not that, Sherlock. _You forgot to flush!’_

He smirks as she joins him in the sitting room.

‘It’s no more than I’ve come to expect, you disgusting boy.’

Moriarty’s teeth are still jumping away. Now it seems to Sherlock as though the man’s teeth are chattering. He’s deathly cold. With his teeth on show and his dark staring eyes, the dead man looks more than ever like the skull on the mantelpiece. Death’s head. _Totenkopf._

‘Mrs Hudson, there are clues in this video. It’s a warning, don’t you _see?_ ’

She turns to him, eyes wild and desperate.

‘Oh my goodness, Sherlock -- what about my electricity bill?’

 

~

 

He leaned back in his car seat, exhausted and his heart beating hard. Perhaps he was ill. That would explain it.

‘Sherlock, you look awful,’ said John, and he _giggled_.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He was determined to muster a smile for John, who looked very happy. So did Mary. She was sitting in the front with Anthea. She smiled at him in the wing mirror.

Normally he’d have resented the way she bundled him and John into the backseat of the car, as though she had two children already. She did things like that because she knew he liked being with John. It was extremely condescending.

But he did like being with John.

‘My nerves!’ Sherlock brought one hand to his forehead and let the other one hang limp from his wrist.

John laughed hysterically. He thought Sherlock was so funny when he camped it up. He punched Sherlock in the arm.

‘OW!’ Sherlock shouted as dramatically as possible. He tried to scowl at John, and slipped into his best Edinburgh voice. ‘Dr Watson, I am _black affronted_. A medical man, such as yourself…’

John punched him in the arm again.

‘Leave him alone,’ said Mary. ‘You’d be tense too, if you’d just been sent to a foreign country, then called back to save Britain from terrorists.’

‘Trust me, I can empathize,’ said John, still laughing.

Sherlock felt awful. He realized now that a small suppressed part of him had been glad to put distance between himself and the Watsons. He asked Anthea to drop off John and Mary at their home, before taking him back to Baker Street.

He hated the back-and-forth of his life with them. John would sometimes spend a whole night at the flat because they’d been working late on a case, then go back to Mary in the morning.

He saw John so rarely that when they did meet up, he was anxious to look his best, in a way he’d never been before. John saw Mary every day, and every day he loved her more, so Sherlock had to be special and different.

He’d found himself digging out the little boxes and tubes he occasionally used for disguises, working on himself with a hand as steady as a professional makeup artist’s, until the face he saw reflected in the mirror was the picture of health. The foundation he would have used in the past only to cover the ghost of a bruise, was now for making his skin look bright and even.

He wanted John to see a Sherlock thriving on three cases a week and a fortnightly visit from John. Very occasionally, John got involved in a case, but only when Sherlock called him. Sherlock rationed his texts to John. He left his phone on the other side of the flat so that he’d be less tempted to read and respond to John’s texts immediately.

 

~

 

Underneath the makeup, Sherlock is fading away. His eating habits are worse than ever, and his weight has dropped so low that he’s begun to look gaunt, rather than attractively slim. He’s bought the same clothing in larger sizes -- an obvious way of hiding his weight loss, but not obvious enough for John.

He doesn’t bother with makeup when he’s not going to see John. He spends a lot of time lying on the couch in the flat, conserving energy since he doesn’t have the will power to get something to eat. When he finds himself a case, he eats what he must on the way to the crime scene, and powers through on sheer adrenaline. After a while, he stops calling John.

Sherlock has become a mechanical toy. When he has something new to work on, he’s wound tight and restless and ready. Afterwards, he winds down, hands trembling, eyes closing, limbs failing. His mouth is dry, and he knows he must smell bad, his breath like something left in the fridge for too long.

Moriarty's return comes as a relief.

 

~

 

11 hours remaining. Mrs Hudson brings Sherlock a cup of tea, shaking her head. She’s convinced him to turn off all but three of the laptops. One of them seems to have crashed -- instead of showing Moriarty’s face, the screen is a hotchpotch of black and white pixels.

‘Call John! He wants to help.’

‘If John wanted to help, he’d be here.’

She tuts.

‘You’ve pushed him away, silly.’

‘Mrs Hudson, for God’s sake, sit down. I can’t concentrate with you running around and breathing down my neck.’

She sighs, ‘Oh all right,’ and sits in John’s chair. There’s a long silence.

‘Mrs Hudson,’ says Sherlock suddenly, ‘What do we know? What are the facts?’

She’s startled. ‘Er, aren’t you going to make one of your scrapbook things on the wall?’

‘Please.’

 She relents, and relates everything he’s told her over the past hour. There’s not much.

‘The video’s just over 36 hours long, it changed from smiling to laughing after 24 hours, it’s counting down…’

Mrs Hudson waves helplessly at the laptops, perched on chairs next to her and Sherlock, where John and Sherlock’s clients would usually sit.

‘It must mean something. If Moriarty’s behind it, the numbers must mean something.’

'But Moriarty can't be behind it, Sherlock.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes. John never contradicted him when he was explaining things.

‘It’s all too familiar. Moriarty's voice in your ear. And the countdown. Like a bomb -- tick, tick, tick! He’s a bomber, Mrs Hudson, that’s what he does. That's what he likes. The video’s timed to go off -- what else has Moriarty set to go off, when he stops laughing? But I don’t understand! Why would he do the same thing twice? Why another bomb? OK, maybe it’s a bigger explosion, but it’s essentially the same thing.’

Mrs Hudson shrugged.

‘Boring? Well, say it is Moriarty. I don't think it can be, but for a minute I'll play along with you. Moriarty seemed to enjoy exploding things the first time. And, well, the times after that.’ She coughs. ‘Maybe this hasn’t occurred to you, Sherlock -- and maybe I’m wrong. But don’t you think Moriarty’s very fond of…. well, of repeating himself?’

Sherlock’s mouth falls open, because Mrs Hudson is absolutely right. They both fall silent. He doesn’t need to turn the laptops’ speakers back on to know what he’ll hear.

_Did you miss me? Did you miss me?_

Sherlock bolts upright.

‘Yes, Mrs Hudson, oh _yes!_ He’s repeating himself. And he's escalating. That’s why he gave us a more dramatic warning this time. It might not be a bomb, not the kind he used before. But there will be similar rules. An explosion. He likes that, doesn’t he, destruction breaking out from a single epicentre….’

She beams. ‘Are you onto something, Sherlock?’

‘Oh, definitely. This will be very, very useful. Thank you. And now we must locate the epicentre. There’s a style, a poetry to everything Moriarty does. And he’ll have set this up with me in mind.’

‘That’s a big arrogant, Sherlock. Not everything’s about you. You're such a narcissist.’

Sherlock rolls his eyes. ‘The man’s obsessed. _Was_ obsessed. We’ll start with the place he died.’

‘St. Barts? All right, call me on the landline and tell me when you’ll be home. I’ll make you something to eat, just this once.’

Sherlock pauses in the doorway, eyes bright and smiling madly as he pulls his scarf around his neck.

‘Oh, you must be joking. You’re coming with me. When was the last time you saw Molly? Get your hat, and a waterproof jacket. The game, Mrs Hudson, is on!’

By the time she’s ready to go, a taxi is waiting outside the flat. Sherlock opens the door for her. ‘You’re very quiet.’

She makes herself comfortable and raises her eyebrows at him.

‘I know exactly what he means by that remark,’ she says to the taxi driver. ‘Shut up and get in, Sherlock. We don’t want to miss the action, do we?’

‘No, Mrs Hudson.’

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many new developments! I wanted to give you a chapter with some humour and happiness, before everything else I've got planned....
> 
> I _had_ planned to make these just vignettes, but then some plot happened, somehow?! So there will be more chapters.
> 
> I should also point out that while the background to this story is mostly canon-compliant, it DOESN'T include Sherlock using drugs after John and Mary get married.
> 
> <3 Mrs Hudson <3
> 
> ('Black affronted' is a Scottish phrase meaning ashamed, embarrassed, or offended. Supposedly, the phrase derives from heraldry, with knights covering their shields with black so as not to be recognized for who they were.)


	2. Beans and Butter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and Mrs Hudson head to St. Bart's, hoping to find clues to the location of Moriarty's final (and posthumous) explosion.

Sherlock lets his coffee go cold. He picks up the Empire biscuit Mrs Hudson chose for him, and taps it absentmindedly on his plate like a cartoon squirrel with an acorn.

Mrs Hudson sips her second cup of tea. ‘You’re playing with your food, dear.’

Sherlock picks the biscuit to crumbs. He flicks the maraschino cherry across the table.

‘Really, Sherlock --’

‘I -- hate -- coffee.' 

‘Oh, I’m sorry, did you want a tea instead? You should’ve said. I thought you could do with a coffee. You’ve been up so long, you see.’

‘I -- hate -- tea.’

Mrs Hudson rolls her eyes.

‘All right, Sherlock, that's enough. Some detective you are! Haven’t you heard of a stakeout?’

Sherlock grips the edge of the table and glares at her impatiently.

‘Of course I know what a _stakeout_ is, Mrs Hudson. But you obviously don’t. This isn’t a stakeout, this is just waiting. Pointless waiting. We’re wasting time.’

10 hours remaining. He throws himself backwards into his chair, his fingers tapping a lively polka on his knee. God, it’s unbearable, this dead calm between one bit of evidence and the next.

‘Well, last time you went poking about in St. Bart's without Molly, you got yourself kicked out. So it was wait here for half an hour or break into the hospital. And you’re not committing any crimes, not on my watch, mister. Molly won’t get there for another ten minutes or so, and until then you can just stay put.’

She sips again, and a smile spreads across her face.

‘Ahhh…’ 

Sherlock looks daggers at her, as though she’s doing it on purpose. She probably is.

‘Fine. Eight minutes and we’ll leave. It won’t take us more than two minutes to walk there. Drink up, Mrs Hudson, you’ve got seven minutes and fifty-two seconds.’

Maintaining her look of utter composure, Mrs Hudson rests her elbows on the table and closes her eyes, steam rising from the cup she’s holding.

 

~

 

Lestrade had come charging into the flat and demanded that Sherlock talk to him about the case.

'Get a move on, Sherlock. We'd much rather find out what the video means and  _stop it_ than do damage control later. We've got forensics helping the secret service team who're working on the video. Come along with me, Sherlock. You're doing no good up here.'

In Lestrade's opinion, the video's the work of a copycat criminal. Sherlock, of course, disagrees. He thinks it's only a matter of time before the video shows him something new. He's convinced that Moriarty planned this puzzle ahead of time, set it to start ticking many months later. 

If he plays by Moriarty's rules, Moriarty will send him more clues. And anyway, the copycat theory can't possibly be right, because it's Lestrade's theory.

'Sherlock -- you utter, utter prick!'

Lestrade had left Sherlock crouched in the flat by himself, the laptop screens buzzing with Moriarty's face.  

Sherlock didn't know it yet, but there were 15 hours remaining.

Eventually Sherlock's legs slipped forward onto the carpet, and he fell asleep in his chair. When he woke with a start, he was uncertain of how much time had passed, and found himself unable to deduce it. Things were muddled in his head. Bit like being drunk. 

The momentary confusion reminded him that he wasn't well. He wasn't as he should be. He was awake, but Baker Street seemed far away, and the visions he'd dreamed while he slept still clustered round him, tugging at his consciousness like children tug on their mother's clothing when they want her attention. Her affection.

The first dream, he assumed, was about the case.

He had a vision of a broad plain that seemed to go on for ever. It was pure white because it was covered with a thin layer of snow. Sherlock flew down over it, and a great edifice came into view, built out of beautiful pale yellow stone. The building, which looked something like a college or cathedral, was perhaps an amalgamation of memories from his days at university.

However, the building was conspicuously unfinished. A huge chunk was missing from the corner, which was still under construction. A pile of pale bricks, metal bars, plastic sheeting blown ragged by the wind.

There was a person next to him. Someone shorter than him. John, he supposed. 

John didn't speak, and Sherlock didn't look at him. He only said to the man by his side, 'They'll need to get that finished,' meaning the building. It was a stronghold, there shouldn't be holes in it. 

 _It needs to be perfect,_ thought Sherlock in his sleep.  _The walls, they've got to be completely smooth and unscalable. No missing pieces._

He did not think about the fact that he and John were outside in the cold. More snow would fall, and the big doors at the front of the building were locked. When the building was complete, as it surely would be soon, how would they get in? 

 _The missing piece is the clue I'm missing_ , thought Sherlock, when he woke up.  _The edifice is my evidence_.

The second dream, he assumed, was about John. 

John had been in the dream, at any rate. He was going through Sherlock's books and packing everything up into boxes. Sherlock watched him, unable to move or say anything to John. The air around him was thick as treacle and he could only manage to say a few baby syllables through it.

He realized that John couldn't see him.

Gradually John emptied the flat and took everything away, the books and case notes and laptops and Sherlock's shirts and both the armchairs and even the bed.

 _You took everything_ , thought Sherlock in his sleep.  _John. You took everything._

The dream ended when John took himself away, packed himself up with the last of Sherlock's things and vanished, leaving Sherlock by himself in the flat. It was not as if John had never been there. No, it was much worse.

Sherlock felt something heavy descend on him, constricting the life in his chest. He supposed this was why people felt they needed ridiculous idioms to describe their emotions. Heartbreak. Desolation. Crushing loneliness.

When he came to himself, he felt an indescribable sense of consolation on seeing all his familiar clutter around him. Half-finished experiments, well-thumbed indexes, evidence from long-solved cases -- everything that had made the flat on Baker Street his home.

 

~

 

Mrs Hudson asks Sherlock if he wants a fresh cup of coffee, and he pretends not to hear her. So they both just sit there for a while, sulking.

Sherlock digs his phone out of his pocket, for what feels like the hundredth time since he sat down with Mrs Hudson in the coffee shop. He’s tempted to text Molly and tell her to hurry up. But he stops himself. That would be -- how would John put it? -- that would be a dick move.

Oh. He has a text.

The text is from an unfamiliar number. Sherlock feels his heart stop and start. And he knows, he just  _knows_ that the text is from Moriarty.

**HELLO MY DEAR**

**IVE MISSED YOU TERRIBLY**

 Moriarty is dead. Sherlock knows that for a fact. He’s been dead for over two years, but that won’t stop him from killing, it won’t stop him from getting his sticky fingers on everything, and it certainly won’t stop him from sending creepy texts.

All of Moriarty’s clients and henchmen are dead too. Sherlock knows that for a fact, and yet Moriarty's fire burns on.

Sherlock gets another text. Not very enlightening. It says only,

**HA HA HA**

So far, Sherlock has one theory. This time round, Moriarty’s crime is working like clockwork. Everything is set to go off at a certain time -- the video, the explosion. He just doesn’t know how it works yet.

All right, so it's not much of a theory.

‘Mrs Hudson,’ he says, ‘Remember last time, we thought Moriarty was breaking in to all those places with a special line of code? We thought he was a master hacker.’

‘You were the one who thought he was a master hacker, dear.’

‘OK, yes. Fine. But all the time it was just his people doing all the real work for him, dancing like puppets on his strings.’

‘You said he was like a spider.’

‘What?’

‘You know, a spider at the middle of a web. Pulling at the -- the strands. Sticky, nasty things.’

‘No, no. It doesn’t matter. Just a metaphor. I'm a consulting detective, not a consulting poet. But what I mean is, maybe this scheme isn't half as mysterious as it seems. Maybe Moriarty, when he was alive, set up a computer to extort people at a later date, just by sending carefully worded emails. Or -- not that. But something just as ordinary. Ordinary, but very clever.’

‘Computer programmes?’

‘He’s texting me. Moriarty.’

'Texts? From a dead man?'

'Well, he's not sending the texts. But he wrote them, see?'

Mrs Hudson thinks for a moment.

'No, sorry Sherlock, I still don't understand. Moriarty thought you were going to kill yourself. If it hadn't been for Mycroft.... So why would Moriarty plant all this stuff for you to find, design this puzzle especially for you, when he thought you'd be dead?!'

'The simple answer, Mrs Hudson,' said Sherlock quietly, 'Is that he didn't think I'd be dead. He knew what Mycroft was up to, knew we'd planned for 13 different scenarios. And so he simply circumvented our silly little efforts by planning a problem after the final problem. When he shot himself, he was probably brimming with joy at the thought of all the chaos he could still cause in the future. Whatever else the man was, he was no ordinary criminal.'

Mrs Hudson sits back in her chair, gobsmacked.

'We underestimated him, Mycroft and I. All that time, we thought we were fooling him -- but now I doubt we fooled him for a moment. And despite all my efforts, it seems that a crucial component of Moriarty's network remains active. I think he wanted to startle everyone with a final act after the curtain went down, and now he's getting what he wanted. It may be Moriarty's grandest crime yet. His most glorious explosion. After all, could a criminal find a better way of getting away with murder, than committing the crime _after_ he's dead? Mrs Hudson, this is the 14th scenario.'

Sherlock gets two more texts.

**IVE GOT SOMETHING FOR YOU**

**GUESS WHAT IVE GOT FOR YOU**

‘Look, you see. Someone's sending me clues.’

**THATS RIGHT ITS A CLUE**

**THREE TWO ONE**

**READY OR NOT HERE I COME**

They wait for a full three minutes, and Sherlock has unravelled two doilies and almost taken the varnish off the table when finally it comes, a nonsensical assortment of words:

**HOT BOILED BEANS AND BUTTER**

**WALK IN AND FIND YOUR SUPPER**

He can’t make head or tail of it. Beans? Butter? Supper? _What?_

‘How odd!’

Mrs Hudson is looking over his shoulder.

‘That’s one of those old playground games isn’t it? Getting warmer, getting colder? My mother told me about how she used to play beans and butter at school when she was a girl.’

‘Quick, tell me. Explain.’

‘Hot boiled beans and butter,’ she says, pointing at the phone, ‘That’s what you call out before you start the game. You’re trying to find something -- an object, or someone who’s hiding--’ 

‘Oh!’

‘And there’s another person who knows where it’s hidden. And they follow you, saying --’

‘Whether you’re hot or cold!’

‘Exactly. The closer you get to what’s hidden, the warmer you are.’

Sherlock pries Mrs Hudson’s fingers off his shoulder.

‘Oh, sorry, I got excited. But that’s what Moriarty’s playing at, is it, Sherlock? Beans and butter?’

‘Yes. He’s testing me, to see if I can follow the clues and work out where his next explosion will be. Except that he won’t see whether I’m successful or not, because he’s long gone. He’s already had his fun, setting it all up, imagining what would happen.’

‘He _is_ dead, isn’t he?’

Sherlock nods seriously.

‘Without a doubt, Mrs Hudson. There’s no question. I made sure of it. Whatever is happening now, Moriarty set it in motion before he died.’ 

‘Are there any more texts?’

Sherlock checks his phone.

‘No. But let's go. Molly should be at St. Bart’s very soon, she’s always on time.’

Sherlock strides to the door of the café, and Mrs Hudson follows -- but not before she produces a five-pound note from one of those mysteriously invisible pockets of hers. She drops it on the table between her empty cups and Sherlock’s mound of crumbs. The waitress, a woman with greying hair and a sharp smile, waves to her as she leaves.

 

~

 

At nine o’clock on the dot, Molly stands with her key in the door to her office. She nearly jumps out of her skin when Sherlock sneaks up behind her and shouts,

‘MOLLY! I had to wait for ages! But you’re here now--’

‘For God’s sake, Sherlock, what is it now, I’m not even in the door…’

She’s ready to be cross. She’s tired, and it’s been an awful week. But Sherlock looks at her and says ‘Molly’ again, so she stops, and she says as she has so many times before,

‘What do you need?’

Sherlock is relieved to see and hear the evidence of her resolve: the fierce look in her eyes, the tiniest shake in her voice.

‘I don’t know, exactly.’

He explains. Moriarty’s clockwork crime. The epicentre. Hot boiled beans and butter.

‘Right,’ says Molly at once, when anyone ordinary would still be gaping and confused, ‘Should we search the hospital for clues, then?’ 

Sherlock shakes his head. ‘I don’t know. It’s all been about the screens, so far. The video. And then it changed. He was laughing, Molly. He’s planned something big, something big and -- terrible.’

Molly wrings her hands.

‘Right. Uhm….’

They’re both crammed into Molly’s tiny office, which isn’t much bigger than a cupboard for cleaning supplies. Mrs Hudson hovers outside.

‘He likes explosions. He likes…. using our favourite technology against us. He thinks it’s funny. Last time, all he had to do was start up an app on his phone, and Pentonville was wide open.’

‘Sherlock! Really, we’ve had enough of the monologue. Molly’s trying to say something. Molly, what is it?’

Molly takes out her flip phone.

‘I got a text.’

‘I didn’t hear it.’

‘I felt it, uhm, vibrating.’

‘ _Vibrating?_ ’

‘There’s a setting… You can set it to vibrate. You didn’t know about that? But you have a smartphone!’

‘Well, yes, but I like to be able to hear mine across the room. Show me the text.’

**OH MY YOURE GETTING WARMER**

‘Just as you said, Mrs Hudson. And just as I suspected. He must have ordered someone to watch us, to follow us and send these texts. He couldn’t have predicted when I’d go to St. Bart’s or see you, Molly. There’s no way he could have known that, ahead of time. I can call Lestrade, get him to trace the number.’

‘But Sherlock, that doesn’t make sense. Moriarty didn’t know that you -- that we were friends.’

‘Don’t you see, that proves my point, he didn’t know, so whoever’s sending these texts can’t be him. It’s someone acting on his orders, someone who’s found out about you and is using that new information.’

Sherlock almost falls down in his haste to extricate himself from Molly’s office. He brandishes her phone above his head.

‘Come on, both of you. We’re getting warmer!’

~

 

8 hours remaining. They stand in the empty morgue and listen to the rain hitting the skylight. Molly sets a new text alert on her phone and places it on one of the benches. They wait, and they wait, and at last Molly's phone buzzes into life. 

**GETTING COLDER**

**BRRRRRR**

**DEAD COLD**

‘No no _no_ , that can’t be right, we were getting _warmer_ , we were getting closer. This is ridiculous.’

Sherlock begins to thumb through Molly’s texts.

‘Oi, that’s private!’

He dodges her and holds the phone out of her reach. ‘Let me look, I must have missed something.’

Molly scowls. ‘I don’t think so, Sherlock, because _I_ didn’t miss anything.’

She holds out her hand. Reluctantly, he returns her phone.

‘I was just checking.' 

‘Back to square one,’ says Mrs Hudson. ‘Where do we look next?’

Molly’s been chewing absentmindedly on her phone’s antenna.

‘Moriarty's... person has new information now, you said. And we have new information too. This person, whoever he is, or she is, knows about me. Knows that I helped Sherlock, probably. And they sent me a text. Who am I, Sherlock? What’s Molly Hooper to you?’

Sherlock looks at her, dumbfounded. Molly looks back at him like he’s the stupidest person she’s ever met.

‘You care about me, Sherlock. Don’t look at me like that -- I know you do. But that doesn’t matter right now. I’m not the epicentre. Hopefully St. Bart’s will be safe. What matters is, who else fits that profile? Remember what Moriarty’s last plan was. He’s repeating himself, you said. You care about me. Who else do you care about?’

Sherlock’s heart stops for the second time that morning. He’s frozen in the middle of the morgue and he can’t speak. He steps towards Mrs Hudson and manages a gentle tug on the collar of her blouse, and she -- angel that he is -- speaks for him.

‘John. Oh God. Where’s John, where is he?’

‘He’ll be at work,’ says Molly, ‘At the clinic. Go there now, quickly.’

She hurries them towards the nearest exit.

‘Oh no dear, we can’t go this way. Look, there’s an alarm!’

Molly’s mouth twitches, and Sherlock can’t help but laugh, despite the anxiety spreading in his body.

‘Just go through. Uhm, this is my personal emergency exit. I need to leave, sometimes, without people seeing me and asking questions. I’ve, er, done something, you see, to the security cameras. So yes, the alarm will go off, but no one will see anything, and I’ll come up with a bogus explanation for the security guard.’

Mrs Hudson gasps. ‘Molly Hooper, my goodness.’

‘Miss Hooper, this is a pleasant surprise,’ Sherlock bows his head. ‘Thank you.’

Molly nods, still urging them towards the door.

‘Look, I can’t come with you, I really have to get on. I can’t just go crime-solving in the middle of my shift, I’m already behind. Sorry, Sherlock. Uhm, keep me posted.’

Sherlock leans into the crash bar and bursts through to the other side, Mrs Hudson on his heels. They cross the car park, and within seconds they disappear into a cab. The alarm screams in the streets behind them. Sherlock's phone goes mad too, as six texts arrive in quick succession. 

**HOT BOILED BEANS AND BUTTER**

**WALK IN AND FIND YOUR SUPPER**

**ALL THAT RUBBISH YOU EAT SHERLOCK**

**CUPPA TEA AND TAKEAWAY HA HA HA**

**FOLLOW MY TRAIL OF CRUMBS DARLING**

**LETS FIND YOU SOMETHING A WEE BIT MORE SUBSTANTIAL**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I love _Sherlock_ , I found it really annoying that Mycroft and Sherlock supposedly outwitted Moriarty completely. Hence the 14th scenario!
> 
> Wow, I hope this makes sense. Any time you take to make comments or ask questions would be much appreciated :)


	3. The Faithful Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's clues lead Sherlock to a dead letter -- and then things really start to heat up.

The clinic’s too warm. _Someone’s been playing with the thermostat_ , thinks Mary. Briefly she considers undoing the top button on her blouse, before she notices that one of the men sitting against the back wall of the waiting room is trying, repeatedly, to catch her eye. Best not.

Her wedding ring doesn’t warn them off, and her engagement ring hadn’t either. Mary doesn’t blame them, exactly, but she often avoids talking to new men now. She wonders if it’s something to do with the way she speaks to them. Mary doesn’t mean to be flirtatious, but she can’t help leaning in and expressing some kind of interest in another person. She wants to care about you, and she wants to make you laugh. 

Lots of the men Mary meets interpret her cheeky remarks as chat-up lines. One deadpan joke over dinner, directed half at John, half at the waiter, and the waiter’s flirting with her all evening. John sees it, and he hates it. His resentment’s partly jealousy; he was never quick with his jokes, so self-conscious it took him weeks to say more than ‘good morning’ to Mary.

It’s funny, for Mary, to see a man like John with a man like Sherlock. Mary adores the way John walks; when she sees him coming towards her -- or even better, watches him walking along when he hasn’t spotted her yet -- an irresistible happiness rises up inside her, and for a moment she forgets how long her life has been, and she can’t help smiling.

John walks quickly, partly because he’s used to keeping up with Sherlock. With his straight back and his arms in sync he’s only ever a beat away from breaking into a march. Beside him, Sherlock walks with his head pushing forward through the crowd, as though his brain leads his body. John mumbles, ‘Sorry, er, sorry about that, er, excuse me,’ as he follows in the wake of Sherlock’s streaming coat-tails, and Sherlock shouts with barely concealed glee, ‘Keep up, John!’

 

~ 

 

She’s never caught Sherlock in the act of putting his face on; he’s too clever for that. But she knows he does it for John. Once, when John was pottering about in the kitchen, she’d sidled up to Sherlock and said in a stage whisper,

‘When did you start?’

He looked down at her.

‘With the --’ She gestured at her own face, blinked her eyelashes once, with emphasis.

Sherlock looked away and stood totally still as if trying to blend in with the carpet and wallpaper, but Mary’s stare was unrelenting.

‘I -- uhm. When. Then, occasionally. Uhm.’

To anyone but Mary, his words would have been incomprehensible.

‘And now, every day?’

Sherlock paused, his face still turned away from her, his eyes intent on something Mary couldn’t see, and he hissed his reply.

‘Sometimes. Some days.’

She regretted asking, then, yet she pressed on.

‘But _for John_.’

Sherlock turned to look at her. He said nothing, but his look frightened her. She thought of Sherlock as young, so much younger than her and John despite his intelligence -- but he wasn’t really, he was old enough to have a wife and kids and a desk job, and he didn’t have any of those things.

And on that day, staring silently at Mary while John loaded the dishwasher and hummed to himself, Sherlock didn’t look young. He was like smooth pale plaster, a reproduction of some ancient statue made lovingly by a civilization long gone extinct, now standing forgotten on the lawn while the children who once played in the grass grew up, fell in love, married and died.

Mary realized then that Sherlock would never go away. She didn’t presume to know the exact nature of the love he felt for John, but she understood that it was no less important than what she felt for him. Instinctively she felt that Sherlock didn’t want her gone, or to take her place in John’s life. But that confused her. Because if Sherlock didn’t want that -- didn’t want to go to bed with John and wake up inside his warmth, didn’t want everyone to know that John was _his_ , didn’t want to know how it felt to touch John, to hear John moan through the dark as he bore down on him, and John gave way, willingly -- then what the fuck did he want?

‘You’re good at it,’ she told him. ‘A man wouldn’t notice. But women will notice. I can see the powder. When I get close enough to you, I smell it.’

He nodded. 

‘And Molly said to me -- well, she knows.’

He nodded again, giving her a small smile, or something like a smile.

 ‘Ye-es, she offered to lend me her mascara.’

He drew the word out mockingly -- ma- _scar_ -a -- so as to leave her with the impression that such things were beneath him, or should be, and that she would never experience the variety of self-loathing that walked in Sherlock’s footsteps.

‘Don’t -- ah -- don’t tell him. Don’t tell John, Mary.’

‘Safe with me,’ she said, and went through to tell John that if he’d quite finished banging around in there, she wanted a drink.

 

~

 

When Mrs Hudson shows up in the clinic reception, beaming excitedly at Mary and going on about everyone in London being about to die or something, there’s a strange man next to her. He’s fidgeting with his phone and rubbing his eyes, and seems ready to pass out.

‘Eight hours remaining,’ he wheezes.

It’s Sherlock.

‘Jesus fucking Christ, I thought you were a patient. You look like death warmed up. What have you been doing with him, Martha?’

‘Hasn’t slept, won’t eat. I _even_ said he could have a cigarette, but he said he didn’t have a spare minute. Thank goodness we managed to get a taxi. He’ll make himself ill, this one. But he’s having a fantastic time!’

Sherlock doesn’t look like he’s having a fantastic time, at all. He tries to look like he’s casually leaning on the desk while he gets his breath back.

‘I feel awful,’ he admits. ‘But it’s very important.’

His eyes dart to the phone on Mary’s desk. In his left eye, blood vessels have broken and formed a small red cloud.

 _No makeup_ , she thinks, but that’s not unusual, because of course he knows that John’s not working at the clinic today.

‘Your mobile. Can I take a look at it?’ Sherlock puts out his hand.

‘Still not working. People keep asking to use the landline, because everyone with smartphones just has that video….’

Sherlock grabs it anyway.

‘ _Yes!_ Look.’ He turns the phone around so that Mary and Mrs Hudson can see that the phone’s back to normal.

‘Oh! Has the video stopped then?’

‘No, it hasn’t. Your phone is special. Like Molly’s and mine.’

‘Sherlock, what are you talking about?’

‘Moriarty,’ he says shortly, as though that explains everything. It’s good enough for Mary.

‘Let me --’

But before she can finish, her phone chimes in Sherlock’s hand.

**ITS STONE COLD IN HERE, SHERLOCK**

**COME CLOSER + LET ME KEEP YOU COSY**

**TURNS OUT THIS IS YOUR DEAD LETTER DAY**

‘Moriarty’s playing a game. Posthumously. He’s leading us somewhere, I don’t know where. Warmer, colder. He says cold, so we’ve lost the scent. But --’

‘But it’s roasting in here. I thought someone had been messing with the thermostat, but they shouldn’t be able to. You have to enter a code to change the temperature.’

Sherlock’s already searching, making the people in the waiting room glare and mutter as he peers under their seats and sends the stupid magazines flying.

‘Nothing, nothing!’ He purses his lips and moves back to Mary’s desk. ‘Mary, you know this room. Is anything out of place, anything where it shouldn’t be?’

Mary shrugs.

‘They redecorated. And the other day, Katie and me noticed a weird statue that just sort of appeared on one of the tables. It looks bronze. Probably fake. I thought it was really ugly, so I moved it. Could that be something?’

‘Could be something. Where is it?’

‘Behind that plant.’

Sherlock got on his knees and began examining the sculpture. It was a child, seated on a rock, pulling a thorn out from the sole of his foot. People crowded round.

‘Oh, it’s a little boy!’ said Mrs Hudson.

‘He’s a very famous little boy,’ said Sherlock, running his hands over the sculpture as he spoke. ‘This is a copy of a Roman bronze. See the thorn? They called him Spinario, or Fedelino. The faithful boy.’

‘Is it part of the clues?’

‘I think so,’ said Sherlock, and then he knew. Because where the thorn should have pierced the boy’s foot, there was a hole. Sherlock got his tweezers and drew out a narrow piece of paper, tightly rolled. He stood up and held it aloft.

‘Moriarty’s dead letter.’

He read it aloud to the gathered people, if only to drown out the voice of James Moriarty resounding in his head.

 

_Sherlock dear,_

_I’m so bored of London. This place is a vampire city, hanging on the neck of the nation like a fat tick swollen with what it’s sucked. Not long now before it’s time to do a bloodletting, Ha Ha! I’m so very cold now, down here, and I want to be warm. I want to see queens and princes sitting on their thrones soaked with their own blood; and from then on, no queens, no crowns, no governments, no London. I only want what’s best for both of us, you’ll see._

_So you found Fedelino, did you, darling Boy? Well done, but I’ve got a bigger one. They say that the best laid plans of mice and men gang aft agley, dear heart, but we both know I’m neither._

_Faithfully Yours,_

_James_

 

‘Ugh, he’s horrible,’ says Mrs Hudson, ‘What a horrible letter. It’s pretty clear what it means, he’s going to kill a lot of people. Maybe the Queen! And her lovely relatives! Oh, Sherlock! What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going home to bed,’ says Sherlock. 

So Sherlock goes home to bed, and he sleeps for nine hours straight. When he wakes up Moriarty’s video has come to an end, and the virus quietly deletes itself from everyone’s phones and computers. 

Sherlock sits and sits in his chair by the window, and he waits for something to happen -- but nothing happens. So Sherlock gets his coat, and he goes out to find John Watson and make something happen.

 

 ~

 

Being near John is the most exquisite discomfort Sherlock has ever known. In the earlier days of their friendship, he had simply taken pleasure in spending time with John, and that pleasure wasn't spoiled by jealousy, or by a need for something more.

Now he thinks about John obsessively. He catches himself dreaming in the middle of the day, creating brief fantasies of John saying things he'd never say, John doing things he'd never do. He perceives that his thoughts about John are no longer confined to certain compartments of his mind. Instead thoughts about John, images of John, the smell of John, roam free; and John comes sneaking in when Sherlock least expects him, an unsettling presence that follows Sherlock up and down the corridors of his mind. John is everywhere and always.

It becomes so maddening that whenever Sherlock realizes he hasn't been thinking about John, if only for a few hours, he feels triumphant. He needs to be in control of himself: he doesn't need to confess anything, or to break off ties with John -- no, everything is fine, it's all fine. 

And yet, Sherlock knows that everything can't be fine forever. Fine is dreadful, actually. Fine makes him feel as if he's going insane, or the only sane person left in London. Fine makes him feel insignificant. Fine will make him funny Uncle Sherlock, in a few years' time. And perhaps that he wouldn't have minded that, in another life where his best friend wasn't John Watson.

The worst thing about loving John isn't the guilt he feels when he's eyed John's arse through his jeans; it's not the brainspace he wastes memorizing the clothing brands John wears and the shaving cream he uses; it's not sitting alone in his flat with no John to laugh at his running commentary for whatever stupid programme is on TV.

No, the worst thing about loving John is the fact that Sherlock has begun to hate his best friend. He hates John for being so attractive and so oblivious. John is straight, and Sherlock should know. Not much escapes him, and where John is concerned nothing escapes him. He's been watching John for months now, gauging the level of John's interest and attachment. He used to love picking up on signs of what could have been: John's obsession with him, John's willingness to follow him into danger, John's ability to fit almost perfectly into Sherlock's unorthodox lifestyle.

But now every sign he sees is a sign that John is a good friend. Whatever passing infatuation there was, of a student for his mentor, of a soldier for his commander, has faded into John's chummy manner. In the smiling eyes of his friend, Sherlock can find no trace of desire, only trust and respect.

God, it's revolting.

What Sherlock wouldn't give to see John turn hesitatingly towards him, eyes suddenly sly, lips dark and open, aware of Sherlock's eyes on his body.  _John shouldn't be straight_ , thinks Sherlock.  _I want him_.

John turns hesitatingly towards him, fingers hovering on the door handle.

‘You’re sure this is the right place? Door’s locked.’

‘The police secured it. Can’t have everyone waltzing into one of Moriarty’s old hideouts.’

John nods. ‘Might be booby trapped. Bomb in there, waiting to go off.’

‘We’ll be very careful, though.’ Sherlock glances meaningfully at John. It’s late, and the alley they’re in is deserted.

‘Yeah,’ John grins, and wastes no time in breaking in through the back door.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In BBC's _Sherlock_ there seem to be tonnes of reproductions of classical statues hanging about in odd places, so I thought one more wouldn't hurt....


End file.
